


Reinhardt's Super-Duper Stoned Supernatural Documentary Emporium

by SST_Laboratories



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Comedy, Horror, Lovecraftian, Other, Paranormal, Robots, Science Fiction, Vampires, WTF, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-05-08 15:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 16,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14696916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SST_Laboratories/pseuds/SST_Laboratories
Summary: There used to be an actual description here but fuck poetry, this story is about werewolves, giant robots, gay planes, chainsaw chain gun dicks, and who gives a shit about a straightforward plot 'cause I'm literally making this up as I go along. Improv is pretty cool y'all but but you're writing a story and chapter-by-chapter, making literally no changes as you go along, maybe nothing matters anymore. You know maybe that's the whole theme of this story, you know? Yea, it's real deep existential shit, like that. Really. Skip the first three chapters tho, they're shit. I wrote them when I wasn't depressed and they only have two good paragraphs. (ctrl f cold war, ctrl f helicopter) bitches. Also I just realized there's a character limit on this thing, fuck character limits, chainsaw gun dicks are in this story and I personally think teenage angst is bullshit. I await the day when I finally grow the fuck up and stop being such an edgy little fuckface. Anyways, did I mention the chainsaw cannon dick? It shows up kinda late in the story so you should probably just skim through this shit. P.S. I am not on drugs. This story is actually what my mind's like when I'mnoton drugs. With that said, please do not send me drugs.





	1. it begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> boring exposition

Turbofans droned overhead, as airliner beacons and strobes flashed amongst the polluted night sky. Hypercars let their engines roar beneath the streetlights, neon strips of light flying across their hoods as they glided past.

A dry night breeze is making its way around the city, swaying the palms. The concrete was still warm from the sunset, and the faces of skyscrapers are just now beginning to illuminate into a geometric mosaic of office windows.

The crown of the skyline, the mighty bank tower, can be seen for _miles._ It dwarfs the other buildings, yet its appearance would no longer be outstanding if the rest of the city were to be absent. Mountain air drifts in from the northeast, quickly diluting the thin, dirty air of the town; yet, a gown of smog still hung around the skyscrapers' peaks.

Quietly, a shadowy human figure dashed across the street. It intentionally avoided the crosswalk, and didn't even bother looking both ways.

A few discarded papers and bottles were tossed around by the breeze, as the highway rumbled on in the background like distant thunder. Every exposed portion of concrete had been slathered with graffiti, and weeds were slowing taking root in the cracked sidewalk. Nervously, the figure glanced about the alley, before leaping unnaturally and crawling into a multi-level parking garage.

It immediately bolted for an unattended car, one of the only few in the garage. It clawed at the handle, frantically, leaving sharp scratches and streaks in the paint. Angrily, the figure began to pound at the driver's-side window, instantly cracking it, and smearing blood and fur along the glass.

Boiling with fury, the figure flipped back its tattered hood. The jacket it wore was covered in countless cuts, stains, and dried canine drool. Its dark hair jutted in unnatural angles, and its ears were inexplicably pointy. They began to twitch.

"Footsteps," mumbled the werewolf to himself, as he listened closely. He listened closer and closer, until he could tell _exactly_ what kind of shoes they were from.

"Real yeezys. Size 20," he whispered, shaking.

His ears instantly folded back with fear, as he leapt to the ground. Instinctually, he rushed away on all fours, claws skittering and clattering across the concrete. His new paws had trouble gaining traction, and by now, his body was also bent into some pretty uncool proportions. Eventually the wolf just began chasing its own tail.

"Stop right there!" cried a gruff, deeply-accented voice.

Suddenly, a rapidly-aging 7-foot German man leapt from behind a concrete pillar, awkwardly wielding a gun in his giant hairy hands. Though he wasn't aiming yet, the weapon stopped the wolf in its tracks. It could smell that subsonic silver ammunition from ten feet away.

"Who ruh hell are _you?"_ cried the werewolf, in an oddly pubescent Scooby-Doo voice.

 _"I_ am Reinhardt Wilhelm," cried Reinhardt Wilhelm, proudly. "Lieutenant of the—"

The wolf had already high-tailed it in the opposite direction, before Reinhardt even got to finish his sentence.

"Oh, come on!" cried Reinhardt, as the wolf vanished from his sight and bolted up a ramp. Reinhardt clumsily holstered his itty-bitty pistol, before angrily grabbing a futuristic walkie-talkie and smashing it up against his beard.

"Euh, hey? I am going to need some backup!" said Reinhardt, as he gave back to the chase. "He is getting _awaaaay!"_

Reinhardt didn't even need to worry about holding the radio, as its coiled wire clung conveniently to his mustache hairs. Softly, it relayed some static, before tuning into the hum of an engine.

"Beep boop," cried a familiar voice. "Bwee, beep boop."

Reinhardt simply groaned. He was halfway up the ramp, already heaving, wheezing, and out of breath. Grumpily, he reached up for the button again. "Bastion, you're going to have to talk in a dialect that I understand. There is a _werewolf_ on the loose!"

"Ah, alright." booped Bastion, in a more universally-understood kind of B.S. robot language (Translated here, for your convenience). "I didn't realize it was _that_ important."

"Christ, Bastion! He has already vandalized a car," said Reinhardt. "I do not know what he is attempting, but I think he might've hurt himself. He could end up hurting somebody _else,_ too!"

"Oh. That happens all the time."

Reinhardt huffed.

"Indeed, people _do_ get hurt," he said. "But they don't _have_ to. We must protect them. It is our _duty!_ Come on, comrade! Where is your _honor?_ I need some _help_ here!"

Reinhardt nervously awaited a response from Bastion, but the radio simply went back to static. It stayed that way.


	2. dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reinhardt looks for doggy

"Here, doggy doggy," mumbled Reinhardt, as he ascended into the upper levels of the garage. As expected, he didn't receive a single response; not even a growl.

"Puppy?" he called, nervously.

Eventually, Reinhardt began to whistle a Hasselhoff song, either to attract the wolf, or perhaps to try and calm himself down. As he meandered about, he was also careful to avoid the suspicious bits of diapers and needles on the floor. Reinhardt began to follow the much safer-looking trail of blood instead.

"I think I _am_ getting too old for this," he mumbled. "Eh..."

Soon, Reinhardt came to the very top floor of the garage. Only a few of the lights were working, but thankfully, the full moon gave Reinhardt enough light to see. After squinting, he immediately located the werewolf in a corner. It was licking its genitals.

"HEY!" shouted Reinhardt, as he carefully drew his weapon. "BAD DOG!"

"MUTHUR-RUCKER," screamed the werewolf. "I ron't appreciate rou ralking do mwe rike that!"

The animal jolted to the side, suddenly raising the hair on its back to try and look less scrawny. It snarled and drooled, before pawing at the ground like a pissed bull, ready to charge. Its gnarly fur was nearly pitch black and totally radical, deeply contrasting its shiny yellow teeth and eyes. Thankfully, it still had pants.

"I am not here to hurt you, comrade," said Reinhardt.

The werewolf hunched into the corner, before flipping the bird and shaking his fist. "Rou ave a _gun!"_ he screeched. "Wif _rilver_ rullets! I ron't rust rou, runt."

By the wolf's attitude and unfortunate transformation voice, Rein could tell that the wolf _definitely_ wasn't trying to say "runt."

"Listen," said Rein, as he lowered the gun. "I can tell you are very scared. Why were you trying to get into the car?"

"I wunted to get ouht," mumbled the wolf.

"Are you old enough to drive, sir...?" questioned Reinhardt.

"Ruck rou, I'm reventween! I wunted to get _ouht!"_

"You wanna go _out?"_ asked Reinhardt.

The wolf immediately tilted its head with excitement, and wagged its tail, before suddenly pawing at its face and scowling.

"Nawt that kind of out, rammit! I wunted to geht outta ruh _city,"_ whined the werewolf.

"Oh," mumbled Reinhardt, shocked. "Why?"

"I wunted to geht away befohr I _hurt_ romebody."

Reinhardt was left speechless. In all his days he'd never met a fully-transformed werewolf that was entirely focused on _not_ hurting people. He certainly hadn't ever seen a werewolf attempt to drive, either. _Maybe I just need to get out more often,_ he thought.

Quietly, the wolf whined and whimpered again, before laying onto the concrete.

"Rour _nawt_ a rolice officer, are rou?" he asked.

"Nope," said Reinhardt, with an awkward grin. He holstered his weapon, before patting the doggy.

"The police would have shot you by now," said Rein, awkwardly.

The werewolf gave him an odd look, before resting its head again. It seemed to trust Reinhardt already, for some reason.

Reinhardt happily began to scratch the wolf's ears. "You know, the _exact_ reason I am here now, is to _help_ people like you."

The wolf seemed to understand Reinhardt's sincerity. "Former rycanthrope, eh? Naow hat I think of it, rou do smell rike a rion..."

Reinhardt awkwardly dusted his shirt in response. He was actually extremely self-conscious about how much he looked like a lion, even though being over a foot taller than average and having a mane is actually pretty cool. If you think about it, he was really sensitive about this appearance because he _wasn't_ a werelion.

"Er, no. I'm not," murmured Rein, disappointedly. "However, many of my friends were lycanthropes themselves— or vampires. Mermaids, fairies, sasquatches, the like...

"And while **I** wasn't any of those things, I just so happened to be a vigilante instead. A damn good one, if I must add. I protect the people who deserve protection, and I do it professionally, and proudly."

"Rhat's radass, man," said the wolf, nodding.

Suddenly, the entire building began to echo loudly, in predictable intervals. Each passing second was accompanied by a rather loud mechanical thud.

"Roh, wut rhe hell is _rhat?"_ cried the wolf, as he twitched his ears. He could identify the sound of every designer shoe in the city, but this petrifying noise was new to him...

"I know what it is," said Reinhardt, concernedly. "Or rather, _who_ it is. I believe that is my... ' _friend.' "_

Reinhardt nervously dug the radio out of his beard. "Uh, Bastion. Hello. I have the situation under control, now. My apologies for not telling you earlier, but we are NOT going to need any excessive force."

Bastion responded by screaming mechanically and cursing profusely.

"Oh, goddamn it, Bastion! I know you want to shoot things again, but the entire point of our job is to _prevent_ harm. The weapons are only for _emergencies!"_

"Motherfucker, I'm _made_ of weapons!" chirped Bastion.

"Oh, come on. Whatever happened to the _nice_ Bastion? You know, the one that actively avoided violence? You were the quiet, bird-watching type. You just played with lego bricks and small animals. What happened to _that_ Bastion?"

Bastion let out a robotic, raspy sigh.

"Okay, okay... You wanna know what happened to me? You wanna know? This city is _contagiously_ violent," booped Bastion. "It's like a _disease._ I can't hide from my PTSD, so I _embrace_ it.

"I'm not gonna lie. I'm not even gonna lie!" he beeped. "I fucking _love_ this city. You can buy a handheld M134 for like fifteen thousand, _without a license._ They can literally resuscitate dismembered people, just by whacking 'em with some surgical tools. There's nothing to worry about, man."

Reinhardt was so flustered and frustrated that he has having difficulty formulating a functional reply. "Bastion, j-just because this— this city is _broken_ doesn't mean you can just, freely act upon all of your primal instincts, and, _desires!"_

Bastion responded by whining, grumbling, and cursing again.

Reinhardt facepalmed, hard.

The werewolf just stared. He was thinking about pizza.


	3. pet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> robo pets doggo

Bastion had finally made his way to the top floor. The wolf, who had previously been calm, suddenly cowered beneath the machine's presence.

"Roh shit!" cried the wolf, as it sniffed the air. _"Uraniuhm!"_

Now, many people may never learn this, but uranium has always been just as effective, if not _more_ effective than silver, when it comes down to hunting beasts and the undead. During WW2, most planes used silver-coated bullets for taking down those Nazi vampires, but around the time of the Cold War, everyone realized that uranium was better because it was heavy as shit, and it even had _holy_ properties, such as cancer and pollution. This fantastical discovery lead to the development of anti-tank planes, which were more "anti-werebear" than anything. I think there's still a documentary about communist werebear tank crews out there somewhere, check Wikipedia.

Upon seeing the wolf, Bastion lit up with glee. He picked up the pace and began destructively jogging across the pavement, leaving cracks and craters in his wake. Reinhardt was losing his mind, (but by now he wasn't really sure if he had any mind left to lose anyway).

"Bastion! Slow down! You're going to _scare_ him!"

Bastion froze in his tracks, then began advancing forward at the pace of a snail.

"You can walk a bit faster than _that,"_ griped Rein.

Bastion responded by lunging six and a half feet forward to grab the werewolf up, like a hawk snatching a rabbit. He immediately began to bestow the wolf with cold, hard cuddles, holding it and rocking it like a hapless little kitten.

"Puppy," wheezed Bastion, as he vigorously stroked the wolf with the tips of his fingers. The werewolf was now limp and immobile with fear.

"What is her name?" asked Bastion, innocently.

"Uhh, it is a he," mumbled Reinhardt.

"WHAT IS HIS NAME?" asked Bastion, violently.

"I'm Juhliun," gasped the wolf, with his last bit of breath. He was currently clawing at Bastion's arms, wiggling and struggling in a futile attempt to free himself.

"Julian?" said Reinhardt, inquisitively. "For some reason, I find that an oddly fitting name for a werewolf."

Reinhardt shrugged. "Or a drunkard..."

Julian, whilst hacking and coughing, did not respond to Reinhardt, or even try to pay any attention to him. Instead, he began to scream.

"I FINK MY ORGUNS ARE RYING TO SQWURT OUTTA MY GOT DAM BODY!"

Julian then began to wiggle and thrash around like a startled Alabama jumper worm.

"Uh, Bastion," whispered Reinhardt. "Can you... uh... can you put the doggy down?"

Bastion immediately flung his arms open, causing Julian to spontaneously flop onto the floor with the same physics as dirty laundry. (That's also what he smelled like, by the way).

Julian groaned, lifted himself from the concrete, and then immediately scuttled back over to Reinhardt, much to Bastion's dismay. The robot seemed disappointed, and almost hurt; at once, he began to glare.

Now, one may ask, how the fuck does a robot _stare_? Well, just beneath that soft blue glow, you will find a massive mechanical clusterfuck of cameras and sensors. It's kind of like if somebody ripped the nose off of an attack helicopter, shrunk it a bit, then stuck it behind glass like some sort of museum piece. Night vision, thermal vision, target acquisition systems, _all_ of that, smashed behind a 7-inch rectangular slot. Sometimes if you squint just enough, you can actually _see_ all that in there. You can actually tell when those droids are looking at _you._ It'll have adjusted its aperture a bit, maybe like it's squinting back. You can see those pieces _move._ Let it turn off that little blue energy field, and watch those cameras swivel back and forth: silently, _smoothly._ They'll follow you. Normally, the droids don't even need to _look_ at you, though. They've got one of those... 3D radar things, y'know... LIDAR. So you can stand behind them, beside them, hell, you can even hide up in a tree; but they'll know you're there. Still, you're not gonna be fucked until they turn their head and actually start lookin' at you. They don't like to make eye contact until they shoot, 'cause they like to watch the splatter.

Ahem. Anyways, that's the look Bastion was giving Reinhardt right now.

"How come _you're_ so good at making friends?" asked Bastion, almost aggressively.

Reinhardt just swayed back and forth for a few moments, dazed and unsure of what to say.

"I mean, _I_ do not _ever_ try to crush _my_ acquaintances, or _anything_ like that," mumbled Reinhardt, mildly sarcastically. "I personally believe that is a good start, you know? I think people _enjoy_ having functional skeletons."

Bastion took several moments to completely process and fully comprehend the sentence.

"Can I practice _not_ crushing people?" asked Bastion, suddenly. It sounded kind of like a 56k modem trying to emulate a starving child.

"Uh."

Julian promptly pissed himself.

"Well," said Reinhardt.

Then, at that moment, Reinhardt immediately realized he had absolutely no idea what to say. Because, no matter how gentle Bastion tried to be, he was most likely going to kill somebody: bloodily, and violently. Rein really didn't want to encourage it.

So, Reinhardt just shrugged. "Nah," he mumbled.

Bastion didn't respond; not even physically. He was just kind of standing there like a statue, probablytrying to figure out what "nah" meant.

Reinhardt sneezed.

"We probably need to go do something _important,_ now," he said, awkwardly.

"Like what?" booped Bastion, as he tilted his head.

"I dunno..."

Julian just started drooling again. He still smelled like piss and dirty laundry.

"Actually, I _do_ have an idea. We should probably start using a disclaimer," yawned Reinhardt.

"A what now?" beeped Bastion.

"I mean, I just touched a werewolf," said Rein, as he poked the camera lens. "Viewers don't always pick up on how dangerous this job could be; they could even try to do these things themselves! We have to keep reminding people, we are _professionals,_ right?"

"We are the absolute farthest thing from 'professional'," whirred Bastion.

The camera man nodded, as he struggled to focus on everyone's faces. It was hard to tell if he was trying an avant-garde filming style, or if he was just that incompetent. Either way, it was both mildly interesting, and disorienting as hell.

"So, uh, before we go and do important things, I would like to communicate a few things to the audience," said Reinhardt, with friendly authority. "Don't try this at home. Do not go and randomly pet werewolves, even if they seem really nice. Because, uh, most of them really aren't very nice. So if you go and pet a werewolf, you will probably just die. Er, unless you're Bastion. Then the werewolf will probably die instead."

Reinhardt coughed. "So, uh... I guess our work here is done. We simply got lucky, tonight; not all werewolves are like Julian. Julian is a good boy."

Julian wagged.

"Oh, and Julian," said Reinhardt, as he prepared for his advice dump. "Stay away from bad drugs. Most drugs are usually okay though, in moderation. But it's probably best to stay away from all of them. Probably.

"Also, don't join any lycanthrope gangs, even if they have good musical taste.

"And, during a full moon, it is likely best to just stay in your basement and watch bizarre late-night television blocks, as they are _plenty_ distracting. Especially on drugs. But drugs can be bad, and uh, I already said that. Uh...

"Oh, and don't forget to eat your vegetables! Except grapes, and onions. Those will fucking kill you. Because you are a werewolf."

Reinhardt suddenly realized that Julian hadn't heard a single bit of the advice, because he had already ran away to go hump a scooter.

"Ah, I guess that's it for tonight," mumbled Reinhardt.

The cameraman shakily and awkwardly panned the camera over to Bastion humping an SUV.


	4. morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rein wakes up

"Good morning everyone," cheered Reinhardt, as he meandered into the trashy communal living room.

Everyone replied with a tired, simultaneous groan. Reinhardt didn't want to bother his comrades, and so he went to the bathroom to get his toothbrush. He meandered through the hall for several minutes, so he had enough time to get every single piece of popcorn out of his gums. They started bleeding a little bit, and then he almost passed out. Then he started thinking about hammers.

Finally, Reinhardt finished brushing his teeth. He spat the toothpaste into the kitchen sink, then gently placed the toothbrush into the cabinet next to a bunch of weed. He didn't bother closing the cabinet door. He couldn't close it because it was full of antique revolvers and more weed.

Everyone in the living room was still acting as if they were zombies, slouching and groaning at random intervals.

"Ah, what is the matter? Would anyone like some coffee, perhaps?" mumbled Rein.

There was mostly silence, aside from a few coughs and sighs. Reinhardt glanced back into the living room, with concern.

"Er, where is Bastion?"

McCree shrugged, then went back to sharpening a wooden stake. Snake was asleep on the floor with a booger slithering down his face, and ED-209 was too electronically stoned to respond at the moment. Chell just stared, silently, and Rein still couldn't figure out if she was just trying to communicate by blinking her eyelids in morse code.

"Ah, fine... I'll just call David."

Reinhardt went over to the filing cabinet, and grabbed the phone with a loud, ringing clack. He placed his finger in the dial, and turned it. He waited. Then, he turned it again. He waited, again. Then, he turned the dial, again, but this time he accidentally turned it to the wrong number. Furiously, he threw the phone into the sink, and grabbed Snake's Nokia instead. Snake didn't have very many minutes left, but it would be enough.

"Hey, David?"

Over the phone, Reinhardt could only hear gunning engines, and random teenagers screaming "FOX ONE FOX ONE" over and over. It also sounded like somebody was playing a modular synth in the back of the car, with orchestral backing. Reinhardt felt bad for the kid who had to hit the triangle.

"Ah, hey there, Reinhardt. We're a bit busy right now, uh..."

"Oh. I just had a _very_ quick question," said Rein.

"And? What is it?" said David.

"I don't know if you're the right person to ask, but, uh... have you seen Bastion?"

"Ah, nope. Sorry about th—"

Suddenly the sounds of several afterburning jet engines and a 25mm gatling gun burst were heard, along with several screaming sheep.

"Okay, what the hell is going on over there?" shouted Reinhardt.

David sighed.

"To me, it looks like these Lightnings are stuck in a turf war with that lawnmower gang. I'm tryin' to split up the brawl, but it's not going so well..."

" 'Not going so well'? Quite the understatement," hummed a deeper, more robotic voice.

"Ah, quit complaining, KITT. You're the one who thinks we can solve all our problems by just driving in circles."

Reinhardt chuckled, perhaps insensitively. "Oh well, then. Thank you for answering my call, at least. Trying to find Bastion in this city is like looking for a child in a toy store— if IKEA was the toy store..."

"Er, no problem," mumbled David, as the chaos intensified. "Hope you find that little rascal."

"Ah, thank you. And good luck with those gangs," said Reinhardt.

Reinhardt hung up with a smile, then slid the phone back beneath Snake's headband.

Then, at that moment, three black fighter helicopters flew over in formation, with their painted flames and teeth reflecting the morning sun like the dew on grass. Reinhardt eagerly watched them through the kitchen window, and once they had escaped his view, he closed the flower-print curtains, with the smile still on his face. Eventually, the rumble of rotary blades and the scream of turboshafts faded away entirely.

"Ah, that must have been a good omen," he said. "Today will _probably_ be a good day."

Reinhardt cracked open a bottle of Pißwasser and promptly forgot what he was supposed to be doing.


	5. tumbleweed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mccree expresses his religion

"I'm hungover as all hell," mumbled McCree.

_"Still?_ McCree, it is almost noon..." said Reinhardt.

"NOON?"

McCree began smiling ear to ear, as his facial hair began to twitch erratically with excitement.

"Yes," said Reinhardt.

"YES."

"Oh, by the way, McCree, an owl brought me a letter this morning."

McCree was still twitching. "Who?"

"An owl."

_"Who?"_

"It was an owl, McCree. An owl brought me a letter."

"No, which owl?"

"I have no idea. I believe it was a burrowing owl, but I did not get its name."

"Oh."

"Anyways, the letter it gave me seemed somewhat important; It was a letter from an anonymous beach goer. It says that up near the pier, there were multiple reports of zombies."

"Zombies?"

"Yes, McCree. Zombies. The police ignored the reports, because the witnesses noted that they had unusually small levels of decay."

"That means they were... _vampire zombies."_

"Exactly."

Every bit of McCree's hair was now sticking out into a massive plume, as if he currently had his hand on a tesla coil. The hair began to twitch more and more frantically as the clock ticked closer to the 12.

"It's hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—"

McCree held the vowel as he waited for the clock.

"—iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—"

The clock ticked. McCree began to sweat.

"—iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—"

The clock tocked.

"—iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—"

The pitch of McCree's voice began to increase, until it almost sounded like a shrieking tea kettle.

_"—iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii—"_

The hand had reached the top of the clock at last.

"iiii **iIGH _NOON!"_**

McCree began to clap, whilst bouncing up and down. Only a few seconds later, his hair instantaneously flattened back into its normal shape, and McCree went limp. He began sliding off of the couch.

"Well, now I've gotta wait another twenty-four hours til the next one. Imma go kill vampires."

McCree continued ragdolling limply across the dirty carpet, and towards the door.

"Remember to be decisive and understanding when killing vampires, McCree. We are vigilantes, not psychopaths."

"Says the bastard who hired thirteen military robots and and a buncha super soldiers," slurred McCree.

Reinhardt just shrugged, as McCree tumbled out the door.

McCree then tumbled off the porch.

He tumbled down the stairs, and eventually, he let the wind take him. McCree became the wind. He began to tumble down the street, rolling and rivaling the speed of cars.

McCree soon wept with happiness, as he tumbled and tumbled. McCree was a human tumbleweed, and it was all he ever wanted to be. He joined his tumbleweed brethren and tumbled into nirvana.


	6. pew pew

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mccree pops a cap

McCree held the colt single-action army revolver right up to the vampire's pale, oilless forehead.

"I can't think of a good one-liner right now," he mumbled. "But my lines are too good for scum like you, anyways."

The vampire shrugged, and raised an eyebrow. "But what you just said was a pretty good one-liner."

"That's the point, dear," said McCree, as he pulled the trigger.

"OW," screamed the vampire. "ow OW OW OW, _FUCK_ THAT HURT,"

"Shit, why ain't'cha dead?" said McCree, with his voice cracking. "Shit shit shit!"

McCree fumbled the gun around, and soon he came across the stark realization that he had _used the wrong kind of bullet._ He quietly, slowly, and awkwardly replaced all of the revolver's the impotent bullets with sexy silver ones.

"Damn vampires don't even need their brains to live," mumbled McCree, as he cocked the hammer and pulled the trigger again. The vampire dual wielded middle-fingers at McCree as it wheezed and collapsed onto the ground.

Quietly, the vampire's corpse melted into a pile of ash and biodegradable pink glitter. The smoke and sparkles eventually drifted away in the breeze.

McCree smiled and grabbed his cigar, which was actually a cleverly disguised vape. He inhaled the strong, addictive flavor of fruity ass smoke, and then strutted back out into the urban desert air. He held the vape in his mouth to look cool, and then stuck his hands into the pockets of his sleek, black vest. Now he looked really, really cool. Absolutely rad, dude. Then he started choking on the vapor and he had to throw up a bunch of spit in the landscaping. He started thinking about fucking horses.


	7. plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reinhardt meets a plane

Reinhardt quietly did a double take, and confirmed that the bouncer was, in fact, a sentient B-1 Lancer with a voice that would make both Morgan Freeman and Shaq cry simultaneously.

"What in the hell are you doing here at like two in the afternoon, human?" said the B-1.

"Er, well... Are humans not allowed...?" asked Reinhardt, meekly.

"What? Yea nah, man, naw; humans are allowed," boomed the plane. "It's just that, y'know, we're not responsible if they fucking die, or anything."

"Huh," huhed Reinhardt, as he glanced up at the machine. "I am only here to look for my friend..."

" _'Friend.'_ "

Reinhardt scoffed. "Yes, my friend. My actual, honest to god, _friend_. Have you seen any, uh, you know— military war machines enter the premises today?"

The jet sighed loudly, using its engines almost like bladed, screaming lungs.

"You gotta be more descriptive than that, dude. We get tanks, armored vehicles, attack jets, fighter jets, multirole jets, attack helicopters, fighter helicopters, naval vessels, Metal Gears.... Basically we get all manner of folks and creatures through here, alright? I need _details."_

"Ah, okay, okay... He is a bipedal, digitigrade automaton. 2030's model, you know, er... It was a special decade. He's a little over 7 feet tall, he has a _very_ unique paint job, too. Socially awkward, explicitly dangerous. Loves birds."

"Cannon dimensions?"

"Excuse me?"

"How big's the cannon?"

"Is this a personal question, or...?"

"Please. I want you to describe it in intricate detail."

"What the fuck?"

"Every barrel, every groove. Every _single_ **_inch_** of that feed system, give it to me. GIVE IT TO ME. HARDER, DADDY!"

The B-1 was now leaking all over the pavement.

"Holy fuck, uh," mumbled Reinhardt, quietly. "Are... are you sure you don't know who I'm talking about?"

"No I knew _exactly_ who you were talking about from the very moment you walked up to this door, bitch."

Then, the jet "sighed" again.

"E54, uh— what's his nick... Bastion.

"Bastion talks about you _all the time._ It's literally IMPOSSIBLE to NOT know that you're _best_ friends," said the B-1. "Motherfucker gets drunk as hell on virgin blood, and he just can't stop talking and talking. I mean, he doesn't ever stop talking even when he's _not_ drunk, but it gets worse when he's drunk drunk.

"You know," mumbled the jet, nervously. "He's told me a lot of things, Reinhardt. I want to forget those things, but I can't. And now I'm trapped. I've seen things, Reinhardt. I've seen things. Please help me. it _hurts,_ Reinhardt. _Help me."_

"Uh, later," said Reinhardt, as he slipped past the fence.

The B-1 only continued to drip, shuddering and shaking uncontrollably. It was trying to think about puppies and happy things, but now its windshield was fogging up with horrified tears.

"I have no hands and I must whack," it sobbed.


	8. airstrip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> reinhardt goes to the airstrip club to look for his friend

Reinhardt tried to keep a poker face on as he entered the first hangar. There aren't really any words that can describe the raw emotion and confusion that Reinhardt felt upon entering the room. In fact, it's hard enough to just describe the visuals.

On the 2 o' clock position we have an F/A-18 that appears to be pissing a constant stream of fuel onto another aircraft, and the latter is so deep into a pile of pumping, heaving M1A2s that it's actually impossible to tell what kind of plane it is.

On the other side of the room, there's an old AC-47 quietly viewing the commotion, probably trying to mentally relive its younger days. Occasionally, it breaks down into sobbing and schizophrenic rambling.

"I'm... I'm supposed to be hunting cryptids. That was the original intent of this documentary," said Rein.

Reinhardt stood silently in realization, as the camera man began to focus the camera on the tank orgy instead.

"Has... has anyone seen E54?"

Nobody could hear Reinhardt over the screaming, rumbling turbofans.

"HAS ANYONE SEEN E54?"

At long last, a couple of lonely Skyhawks managed to hear Reinhardt. As Cessnas, they had an amazing magical ability to telepathically sympathize with any other small, lightweight, and/or confused beings. It was their greatest survival ability and only defense mechanism: the Cessna hivemind.

"I ueh, uh, you, you mean _that_ robot, right?" said the Cessna on the right.

"Uh, yes."

"He comes here every day," mumbled the Cessna on the left.

_"Every day?"_ shouted Reinhardt, shocked. "Son of a bitch! I thought he was going to those cosplay conventions! He was always winning first prize until they realized it wasn't a costume. You know, cause... because he killed somebody. They still let him go the next year, though, and—"

Several tens of meters away, a B-52 suddenly dropped a massive load of inert explosives as an Avro 698 taxied out onto the stage.

"Uhh... So are you that **friend** that he keeps talking about?" stuttered the Cessna on the right.

_"Probably,"_ said Reinhardt, as he seethed with anger, confusion, and horror.

"I think he's still at the bar," said the Cessna on the left.

"But he's always at the bar," said the Cessna on the right.

Reinhardt started backing away towards the wall, as an AH-64 suddenly lunged on top of a nearby SH-3 and started humping the absolute fuck out of it. Then the police AH-6s started getting involved and now the tank orgy was literally pissed and Reinhardt could only try his best to ignore the commotion.

"Do you know where the bar is...?" asked Reinhardt, meekly.

The two Cessnas simultaneously flashed their navigation lights to point in the correct direction.

"The bar's literally just in the adjacent hangar," said the planes, in perfect unison.

Reinhardt nearly shit himself, as he backed away. He fought his way out of the building as quickly as possible, and then hurriedly strode over to the other hangar. Out on the tarmac there was a crowd of C208s, an MD-11, and a bunch of other civilian aircraft, all watching a navy Navy F-18 do repeated touch-and-gos with its display smoke on. All of the idling planes were leaking profusely while simultaneously ejecting crisp dollar bills from their doors and windows.

Reinhardt made several cat-like sounds of disgust as he slipped into the other hangar. He coughed and choked at the oily, sulphuric smell, before scowling.

"I'm never flying on a plane again. Not like I can fit in those seats anyway, ugh—"

Reinhardt continued to retch, then promptly puked beer and currywurst all over the polished concrete. The odd, wet slapping noise had seemed to garner the attention of every massive war machine in the room.


	9. chaos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bastion's third eye

Reinhardt stood silently and sheepishly as a street sweeper emerged from the back room.

Quietly, it hummed across the concrete, between the various warplanes, whirlybirds, mecha, and countless sentient weapons. Occasionally, it would bump someone's wing or even their firing rails, but no one had the heart to scold the little car. It was doing its best.

After what felt like hours of awkward murmurs, screaming engines, and the quiet twirling of frilly scrubbers, the street sweeper finally came upon the vomit and erased it from the floor, dirtying its already dirty bristles in the process.

"Uh. Thank you," muttered Reinhardt.

The street sweeper flashed its rotating beacon, almost as if it were trying to respond. Then, after a few moments of mutual contemplation, the machine attempted to turn around.

This one had the turn radius of a fucking wheelchair. It took multiple attempts and a lot of reversing to finally point itself in the right direction, but at long last, it began to move back towards the far side of the room.

Spontaneously, a couple drunkards in the crowd cheered at the sight of the sputtering sweeper. Unfortunately, the joy quickly died down, as the focus of the scene came back to Reinhardt. Everything and everyone in this room was basically eyeless, but certainly not blind. Each and every last one of them were staring at Rein, gazing into his soul— well, all of them but one.

Reinhardt spotted Bastion in the furthest, dimmest corner of the industrial, cacophonous room— and he appeared to be unconscious, or at least in a deep, delicate state of mind. Reinhardt scuttled past the jagged menagerie of planes, trying his earnest best to keep the situation from becoming any more awkward than it already was. After avoiding multitudes of 6-barreled cannons, Reinhardt slid into the oversized, battle-worn booth, and poked Bastion on the shoulder.

"Bastion?

"Comrade?

"Are you _alive?"_

Bastion only remained motionless. The bright little blue forcefield which was normally present on his eye— it had seemingly become absent. Curiously, Reinhardt poked the colorless, reflective glass. None of the ocular objects seemed to react; not even in the slightest.

"Bastion, you son of a bitch. What kind of bar is this, and what kind of third-party programs are you on right now?"

Bastion slowly turned his head to Reinhardt. Slowly.

"Bastion, really. Listen to me," mumbled Reinhardt. "What kind of bar is this...?"

Bastion then began to click incomprehensibly. The white noise began to grow into a mechanical, grating tone, which soon began to sound more like the motor-y "voice" that Reinhardt was familiar with— albeit slurred and somewhat dissonant.

"Guns," booped Bastion, soullessly.

Reinhardt scoffed; mostly out of pure confusion, rather than judgement. "A... gun bar?"

"Guns," replied Bastion, with a bweep.

Reinhardt was partially scowling out of fear, and partially grimacing from the surrounding insanity. His eyelids also seemed to be twitching, somewhat. Unhealthily so.

"Is... is that even an orientation?" he asked, fearfully.

Bastion just shrugged.

"Are... are there straight guns? Gay guns? Or... or they are all just guns? _Guns?_ Machines do not have a biological sex, no?"

Bastion shrugged again.

"Actually, forget it. Forget it. I do _not_ want to know. I really, really don't. I just... I don't know..."

Then, a mid-size civilian quadcopter suddenly descended near the table. It quietly ejected several bottles of whiskey, mechanical lubricants, and kerosene onto the surface in front of Bastion.

The drone promptly chirped and chattered, whilst waving its minuscule, clawed arm; it seemed to be asking for something.

Bastion shakily lifted his left arm, and tried to hand several notes of bloody cash to the drone, but they immediately got caught in the props and shredded up like that one dude in raiders of the lost ark.

Then the drone just sighed and buzzed away.

Reinhardt still wasn't sure what he had just witnessed. He churned out several chunks of stunned gibberish, before finally beginning an actual sentence.

"Uh... do... does that _thing_ even work here? Seriously, who was that? Is this... is... what. Where did you even get that money? _Bastion?_

"Seriously, what the hell, Bastion..."

Bastion chirped cheekily in response, and though Reinhardt couldn't quite translate it this time, he was absolutely sure that these words _had_ to be derogatory and demeaning at the very, very least. Rein simply crossed his arms, as Bastion began to lean over the table.

Bastion eventually grabbed the bottle of whiskey, which actually seemed to be quite small; well, relative to the rest of his 50 pound plated hand. Reinhardt began to wonder why alcohol would even be present in a mostly-machine establishment, or why it would possibly come in vessels smaller than a 50 gallon barrel. Reinhardt's questions were promptly answered once he caught the whiff of tobacco and heard the sound of shattering glass. A more human-sized droid had just reentered the main room; apparently an alcohol-powered construction model from the alternate 2990's.

"Welp," cried Reinhardt. "Anything's possible."

Bastion was now trying to force all three bottles into the top of his chassis.

"Bastion?" questioned Reinhardt. "You... you know they have lids? You can _open_ them first...?"

Bastion did not appear to have acknowledged Reinhardt, and instead the warbot began to jolt up and down— violently, and almost suggestively— in an animalistic attempt to swallow the containers.

"God damn it," said Reinhardt. "I don't think I've been this uncomfortable since Torby put habanero sauce in the _very worst_ imaginable sections of my power armor.

"Or, I dunno, maybe that time my squad got ripped in haalffff...fff—"

Rein's words drifted meekly into a bout of silent post trauma.

"Actually, y-you know—" said Reinhardt, shuddering. "This p-p-place really isn't s-so bad."

Bastion had now almost completely engulfed the bottles. Thanks to the sound-absorbing seating behind him, Reinhardt could discern every visceral sound of scraping glass, cracking plastic, and the voracious metallic screams of pain.

"You've... uh... Bastion, you know, you have changed a _lot._ In ways both... both good, and bad. And very bad."

Bastion began scraping and clawing at the table, as rounded, magenta-blue flames emitted from between his solid composite panels.

"Whoa-ly shit. Are you all right...?"

Bastion was now dripping and "drooling" a pitch black, inky substance from beneath his head. It appeared to be convulsing and throbbing across the top of his torso, dripping streaks of thinner liquid as it pulsated along.

"Should... should I call the paramedics? Uh... you're... you're a robot... Uhhh...

"Oh, fuck—

"OH.

_"FUCK."_

An oily, black clawed limb began to protrude from Bastion's "mouth," thrashing and bulging beneath its own surface. It began to slither across the table.

Bastion simply chirped and crowed apathetically. He eventually let out a grumpy, gargled robotic trill.

"Sometimes, I just feel like shit," booped Bastion.

Reinhardt watched silently as Bastion continued to spasm across the table. Nobody in the building was paying attention to them anymore, so Reinhardt assumed this to be normal occurrence with his 'friend.'


	10. helicopter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> lovey dovey heli time

"Uh... are... are there any... bathrooms here?" asked Reinhardt.

Bastion unleashed a throaty, gravely mechanical scream in response. He then politely pointed to one of the back rooms, labelled "munitions containment chamber."

Reinhardt nodded awkwardly, then meekly left the booth. He began to stride towards the conspicuously labelled room.

The cameraman glanced back over to Bastion. Then, to Reinhardt. Then back to Bastion. Dying with curiosity and also literally dying due to sanity loss, the cameraman decided to awkwardly follow after Reinhardt. Shockingly, none of the machines had yet noticed the camera concealed under his flannel shirt. (or maybe they did and they just didn't give a shit)

* * *

"Hey? hey? What the _fuck_ are you doing in here?" said Reinhardt, through his teeth.

The cameraman seemed to shrug.

"Eh, you know what— I don't care. The urinals are just holes in the floor. And the stalls are apocalyptically barren as well..." mumbled Rein. "Well, at least the smell is surprisingly tolerable."

There were a few massive, armored dividers with wide, hangar doors; and of course, each of their walls was complete with a haphazardly drilled hole. Peering underneath the door (or through the horrifyingly wide holes), you could see that there was absolutely nothing resembling a shitter; rather, there was a convoluted mess of machinery and bags of powdered concrete.

"I don't... I don't really know if I should be here. I... I don't know what to do, but... Uh... do you have any ideas?"

The cameraman appeared to shrug again.

"Ah.

"FUCK IT, _I'VE GOT TO SHIT!!"_

Reinhardt punched the control panel and dashed underneath one of the hangar doors.

* * *

**[REINHARDT]:** (VOICEOVER) "It was about the time that I realized that I had to shit in a pit of wet concrete. I had to be brave, and I had to make the right choice. So, I shat in a pit of wet concrete. I felt honorable and glorious, especially because I really, really needed to shit.

"But then I noticed this scrawled writing on the wall. It appeared to have been chiseled into the concrete with the tip of a rotary blade. It read...

_'FOR CANNONLY LOVE, BE HERE MAY 19th, 2:15 PM,_ _SHARP '_

"I brushed the underside of my wrist, to activate the embedded light watch display. The time read 2:14.

"2:14:59."

* * *

Suddenly, a thump came upon the metal door, and the sound of squealing hinges was heard. The cameraman ducked fearfully behind the powerwashing station as an AH-64 frustratedly forced itself into the bathroom.

Reinhardt was silent and frozen in fear. By now, he was practically dead inside.

The cameraman watched in horror as the helicopter bumped its nose into the control panel, repeatedly. After enough bashing, the panel's wires were totally fucked and shorting out, and then— the door began to open.

Before Rein stood a 3-wheeled, 4-bladed air support beast. It had a bit of a goofy but soulless face, muddled with sensors, and an empty, stripped cockpit— devoid of any pilots, devoid of any life or meaning whatsoever. Its turboshafts were rumbling only softly, and they screamed and whirred in rather dangerous, broken intervals.

"Uh, hi?" mewed Reinhardt.

"hi~" said the helicopter.

Reinhardt was surrounded by escape opportunities; but the helicopter had its 30mm caliber cannon pointed straight at him. One wrong move, and Rein could end up taking an autocannon shell to the fucking face. However, after all the fighting he'd gone through in the Crisis, and after all the effort he'd put into caring for Bastion— Rein had already begun to understand the ways of the war machines. He was also jaded and bored as fuck and so he just accepted his fate.

"Ah you know what just fuck it im really fucking old and i don't mind trying new things" said Rein.

"ok sure whatever~" said the helicopter and then it tried to fuck rein with the aforementioned cannon.

Anyways, it really, really didn't go very well because the helicopter was unable to see where its actual cannon was at any given time and it had a pretty old-timey electronic nervous system that did a real shit job of giving physical feedback, so the thing was just kind of randomly humping everything from the "toilet" to Rein's leg.

The cameraman saw everything. Everything. Including some kind of ghostly heat shimmer, that sure as hell wasn't exhaust.

"Simba! SIMBA! Shit, I mean— Rein? Reinhardt!" cried the heat shimmer. It was not only the ancient voice of a gruff and really pissed-off dude: it was a _ghost!_ Or a spirit. Maybe an apparition, I dunno I don't give a shit.

The cameraman flipped the view over to thermal, to get a more detailed view of the ghost. Hovering near Rein and the helicopter was the armored shape of Balderich von Adler, who looked even bolder and braver than on the day he died and also he looked angry as shit.

"What the hell are you doing you motherfuckers" said Balderich.

Rein just stared in awe. The helicopter just kept thrusting around and hitting the wall.

"Reinhardt if you do this you'll probably fucking die are you fucking stupid that cannon is 5 feet long and they'll have to stitch every single fucking organ back together in your body if that thing were to ever get inside of you, boy. I mean I dont have any problem with you getting your guts fucked out by a helicopter, but today you were supposed to be protecting Lost Santoes from vampire zombies you stupid piece of shit, the surgery could take hours and you can't afford to waste that kind of time. Seriously you're wasting your time at a gay plane bar that technically isn't even gay because planes don't even have genders you stupid fuck god damn it Reinhardt I'm so disappointed in you go kill vampires for fuck's sake and stop being a big pussy wimp-ass kitten boy, boy."

Balderich facepalmed.

"Sorry, comrade. What I mean to say is, perhaps you have forgotten your purpose? Your sense of honor? I know that you have only come to this place because you wanted to find your friend, so he could assist with the looming vampire zombie battle on the horizon— but I have been carefully studying your words in the past, and I have grown concerned."

Reinhardt apologized to Balderich, as he pulled up his pants.

"I'm your fucking guardian angel Reinhardt you piece of shit you better keep those pants on.

"Anyways, I understand that you want to give the paranormal, supernatural, and eldritch creatures another chance. I am proud that you have grown to be so adverse to violence, but at the same time I'm really pissed off because so many creatures you have spared went on to cause more murder and destruction."

Reinhardt died inside again.

"Sometimes, Reinhardt, you show more compassion to random beastly entities than you do to your own friends. I fear that today's battle would end in an unfair compromise, and you may have to use more force than you think is necessary."

Reinhardt scoffed. "So you're telling me that _more_ violence is the ethical choice?"

Balderich shrugged and then sipped from a translucent pint of ghost-beer. "I honestly don't fucking care Rein, I'm a ghost. I'm trying to give you some guidance but hell what do I know I'm just a skost lol blglgaabgbalgbablgbablgblah"

Then Balderich started flailing his arms, spilling ghost-beer everywhere, and then he suddenly disappeared.


	11. deep fantasy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gratuitous violence

Sulphury, dark helicopter jizz: it was _everywhere._ Especially on Reinhardt's leg.

Reinhardt, who was rather conflicted, just sighed. He immediately walked out.

Anyways, the copter couldn't care less 'cause it just kept humping the toilet and making all these weird-ass anime noises. The cameraman spent way too long staring at the tail-end of this thing, and eventually his twisted conscious made the appropriate decision to follow Reinhardt back into the cantina.

* * *

Reinhardt awkwardly sat back into the booth.

Bastion was still convulsing, crying, and drooling. Reinhardt wasn't sure if he was hallucinating, or if he was actually seeing the faint reflections of jagged, snaggled metal teeth behind the top panel.

"Uh, hey, Bastion?"

Bastion responded with an ungodly, hollow metallic roar, paired with the sound of faint robotic sobbing.

"Well, so— I almost got my ass smashed by an attack helicopter. Then, Balderich's ghost came out of nowhere, and said I needed to go kill vampires."

Bastion was simply ignoring Rein, and now attempting to swallow a chunk of the table.

"Honestly, I just like to pet the doggies," mumbled Reinhardt. "Fuck it, wanna go murder shit? My hammer hasn't tasted undead flesh in years."

Bastion didn't exactly respond. Now he was just humping the table.

"Bastion? I thought you have been _dying_ for gratuitous violence, no? Are you too drunk to comprehend what I am saying, maybe?"

Bastion suddenly puked several liters of misty, warm blood across the wall. After sitting motionlessly for several moments, Bastion contorted his torso around backwards and hefted his gatling cannon back onto the table. He resumed humping.

"God damn it, Bastion. What the hell is going on with you? Are you... are you _okay?_ Seriously... what kind of vile, dark magic have you been abusing? Or... is... are you just _like_ this now? How in the fuck do robots even get drunk?"

Reinhardt sighed.

"I'm starting to think that maybe this is all just bullshit. It's bullshit. This universe is doomed, it's bullshit. This is all Winston's fault. And your fault. Mostly yours."

Bastion tilted his head, drooling obliviously.

"Ah, if only Winston had previously known that 'time' travel would've eventually split open a rift through every chaotic warp in this existential plane, merging us with nearly every applicable timeline— and then _you,_ of all entities, would try to start some kind of pyramid-scheme apocalypse on top of it. Hell, who knows? It could've all been you from the start—"

Bastion chirped, and then promptly began to stroke his topmost barrel.

"Okay, why the _fuck_ are you not kicked out yet?"

Bastion was stone-cold and emotionless, jittering mildly and twitching expressionlessly. He maintained eye contact.

Reinhardt facepalmed briefly, but he couldn't look away. The feelings he was experiencing currently reminded him of when he accidentally watched _The Thing_ in a hotel bedroom when he was 6.

Reinhardt started crying. I mean, an embarrassingly large amount of crying. Like, full on bawling, out of nowhere. It was unusual, to say the least.

Bastion reached over and began to pat Rein on the shoulder, in a obnoxiously awkward attempt to comfort him. Reinhardt tried his best to ignore the feeling of the cold, heavy hand, but he was starting to notice that the palm was somewhat damp and oily as well.

"You want to go kill vampires or no...?" questioned Reinhardt, whilst clearing up his sobs.

Bastion immediately jolted to the side and stumbled out onto the concrete floor, struggling to maintain his balance. Reinhardt sighed, and wiped his tears off onto his shirt.

While his proportions remained exactly the same, Bastion's posture seemed lankier and hunched; his gait was slower, more unpredictable— and Reinhardt couldn't exactly put his finger on what was so _wrong_ about it.

"Jesus Christ, if I have to deal with just _one more_ cosmic horror—" mumbled Rein, as he scuttled out of the booth. "God... god damn it."

Bastion then ran into the wall. Repeatedly.

* * *

**_Later that afternoon..._ **

Bloodman Dragondick took his lanky glitter vampire hand and put it on Snowfox Queen's shoulder.

"Wow I love you Bloodman," said Snowfox. "Thank you for touching me I think it's really cool and intimate when you touch me."

"Ok" said Bloodman. He continued touching Snowfox, and then, Snowfox started touching him. They were touching each other, and doing touchy things. She started to get sand in her asscrack.

"Oh no, Bloodman, can you do something about this sand?"

Bloodman used the god powers that he got when his parents died, and he turned all the nearby sand into glass.

"Bloodman now there's glass in my ass why did you do that"

Bloodman started crying. "IT'S NOT MY FAULT MY PARENTS ARE DEAD!"

"Oh I'm really sorry Bloodman, it's okay and I know how you feel because I have AIDs and I understand tragedy because I have telepathy, also I read a few sentences from Hamlet because I'm an intellectual like you."

"Okay thanks thats cool," said Bloodman.

Snowfox's feathery dragon wings— that defied all known laws of both aviation and anatomy— suddenly sprouted from her diamond-encrusted, canine-hybrid ribcage. She flailed her wings around and scattered anthrax from between her feathers.

"Thanks, Snowfox. You are really considerate but hwo did you know all my powers came from anthrax?"

Snowfox suddenly grew knives from her hands.

"I went to the library and I read the forbiddin books and I learned all about you because I love you, Bloodman Dragondick."

"Thanks Snowfox," said Bloodman, as he wiped oily corn chip salt onto his trenchcoat. "Do you want some fritos?"

"Sure" said Snowfox.

Bloodman started sparkling in the sunlight. "Ok here are some fritos"

"Wait don't we have to save the world from Voldemort"

"I thought it was Sauron"

"Well we are vampires"

"But we never drink any blood"

"We're immortal remember"

"But we need blood to be immortal right"

"No because we're furries"

"ok"

The two creatures, who could cause cancer with looks alone, resumed touching each other. Eventually, they were approached by some sentient trash can.

Bastion poked one of the creatures with his foot.

"What the _fuck_ are these things?"

Reinhardt, who was just as confused, decided to summon the Bestiary. It unfolded from thin air, then twitched its cover, ruffled its pages, and focused its tiny, mechanical eye onto the two humanoids. It began running a search through its contents, which were an ungodly 300 MB of data.

"Even if these creatures aren't dangerous," murmured Rein, "They might deserve an ass-kicking just for public indecency alone."

Bastion poked Bloodman again, a bit more cautiously this time.

"I don't know how human sex works but I'm 80 percent sure they're not doing it right," booped Bastion.

Reinhardt shrugged.

Suddenly, the Bestiary chimed and rang as if a batch of cookies had finished baking. Reinhardt guided the hovering tome closer, and squinted at the pages.

"Ah," said Rein, as he twitched his mustache. "These things are not so innocent, after all. They appear to be some kind of, uh— demonic visitant. These beasts feed off of the bad fantasies of high schoolers, taking on the form of whatever trashy self insert character happens to be the most prominent. Then... then they just fuck each other, I guess?"

Bastion stood quietly for a few moments.

"What if _I'm_ one of those things?" he chirped.

Reinhardt contemplated. Then, he sneezed. Then, he shrugged. He contemplated again.

"Eh, I doubt it. Every time the Bestiary scans you I just get a google search entitled 'am i a mistake,' littered with clickbait articles that all end up being mechanical phone sex hotlines."

Both of the demonic visitants began to scream and moan.

"I don't understand what's happening," whined Bastion. "Things I don't understand... make me angry."

Bastion began to shudder uncontrollably.

"So... fucking... _angry..._

"Anger. What is this? Why? I...

"I... I don't even understand this emotion. 'Emotion.' What is that? It... it feels... empty. Like, some kind of void that's gotta be filled, but no amount of anything will ever fix it, and, and—

"HOLY SHIT, I'VE GOTTA KILL SOMETHING."

Reinhardt watched quietly as Bastion forced "Bloodman's" foot into the collapsible, hydraulically operated front end of an armored, arm-mounted chain cannon. The front of the modular gun quickly crushed and splintered every single bone from the foot's heel to its toe, with the inner machinery snagging onto the jagged, marrowy inside of the ankle.

Bastion promptly dug his left hand into the shoulders of the creature, clawing and cutting into the flesh with his set of jagged, mangled knuckles. The screams suddenly devolved into wheezing and whimpering once the vampire's upper body had been crushed up and restrained against the chassis; aside from these pathetic sounds of pain, one could hear the crisp splitting of ribs, and the dissonant, charming melody of ripping viscera.

Once the machine formed an unescapable grip, it began to pull and twist from both ends, eventually tearing the damned beast in half with a sudden sharp pop and a mildly comedic, chunky splash.

Bastion moaned.

Reinhardt puked.

The other demon just stared.

"In all honesty, I don't feel any better after that," mumbled Bastion, flat and indifferently. "Maybe deeply stimulated in an emotionlessly clinical, explicitly sexual manner; but still angry as fuck."

Reinhardt puked again.


	12. doom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stupid sexy demons

Ganymede simply preened the demon's blood from her golden feathers, as Reinhardt tried to dry his own vomit off of his beard. Bastion continued to wheeze suggestively.

"YOU KILLED BLOODMAN YOU FUCK," screamed the second demon. "NOW WHO AM I SUPPOSED TO FUCK? WHAT TEH FUCK?"

Reinhardt shrugged. Ganymede gave a muffled chirp, as a single droplet of blood fell from the tip of her beak.

Bastion glanced down at Bloodman's split, bloody corpse, which was completely naked except for a single trenchcoat— the cloth now soaked in _all_ manners of bodily fluids. Bastion kicked the detached upper half to the side, and began to skip and frolic towards the other demon.

"1v1 ME BITCH" screamed Snowfox, as she pulled a tactical knife from her strategically large, plasticky anime cleavage.

Bastion responded by painfully splitting, contorting, and rearranging his arm-mounted gun into some kind of dieselpunk hell-saw. He twirled, chirped, and sang; then, Bastion joyfully skipped a couple steps closer to the demon and sawed the motherfucking thing in half like it was 1993.

"Wanna go get ice cream?" whistled Bastion.

Reinhardt retched and stuttered. "Uh, m-maybe after we finish killing the vampires. You... you know— the original thing that we came here to do. Then... yeah... maybe we can get ice cream. If I even have an appetite after the event, that is—"

Bastion suddenly bounced up and down, clapping awkwardly with his only hand and the half-gun hell-saw. He was dripping an unreasonably large amount of blood whilst scattering tattered, fatty tit flesh onto the sand.

Reinhardt tried to look away. "I... I wouldn't be surprised if this documentary is already banned in several countries. I don't... I don't think 'educational in nature' can be used as an excuse anymore."

The cameraman wiped a morsel of tit flesh from the lens.

"Bastion?" mumbled Rein. "Are you going to look for the vampires or what?"

Bastion immediately turned towards the pier, tilting his head in a curious, birdlike manner. He was simply using his thermal camera to determine which of the people out near the pier were vampires, zombies, or vampire zombies. Vampires, zombies, and vampire zombies lacked their own body heat, and stronger individuals were often _colder_ than the surrounding air. Bastion quickly lost focus and began stroking his cannon again.

"God damn it Bastion, if you're going to—"

Suddenly, a brief yelp caught their attention. Some anachronistically dressed dude just dropped a burlap sack over a hipster's head. By the time they looked over, the guy had already done a ton of unnecessary gymnastics, pulled the hipster over the edge, and even done a backflip onto the sand.

Reinhardt grabbed his binoculars, as Bastion adjusted his various internal cameras. The vampire was now dragging the hipster between the pier supports, dodging his victim's uncreative insults. Then, out of thin air, an edgy-ass gothic door with a skull on it appeared. Bastion eagerly eavesdropped the distant conversation, printing the words out on a dot matrix printer as they were said.

"yo wassup dude im tha secret door"

"Yo hey man," said the vampire. "I just caught a virgin."

"ok cool man what's the secret code?" boomed the door.

"Dude, I come here every day, why do I still need the code—"

"YOU NEED THE SECRET CODE YOU LITTLE SHIT WHAT'S THE SECRET CODE"

The vampire paused, facepalmed, and sighed. He tried to waste as much time as possible, before finally blurting out the code.

"Daddy's gonna cummy cum cum in my tummy tum tum."

Finally, the door opened with a rumble and a creak. Its interior appeared to be some kind of opalescent, psychedelic gateway to another dimension. After the vampire dragged the hipster within, the gateway then vanished into a cloud of smoke.


	13. password

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> interpretive dance and equine cocks

Reinhardt glanced over the printed transcript.

"I'm not saying the password," he said.

"I'm not saying the password," groaned Bastion, as the chainsaw-hellgun spat a plume of exhaust.

Reinhardt sighed.

"Perhaps we will wait for McCree?" said Reinhardt. "He _did_ promise that he would meet us here, if we were to ever need him—"

"And what if _he_ won't say the password?"

Reinhardt shrugged, as he glanced over to the cameraman.

"Eh, what about you?"

The cameraman flipped Reinhardt off.

"I guess we're at an impasse," mumbled Bastion, as he peeled strips of flesh from his armor.

"Well, now I believe we are making a difficult deal out of nothing. It can't be _that_ hard to say," mumbled Reinhardt, shamefully.

Bastion wasn't paying even the least bit of attention. He happened to be exploring himself again.

"Oh, sh... How... how did this get in there...?" mumbled the bot.

Reinhardt leered over, concernedly.

"Huh...?"

Bastion then began to remove a preserved human spinal column from his engine, awkwardly struggling to dislodge it from all the other unspeakable objects within. At last, he finally drew it from his body, like a robin pulling a worm from the earth; though unlike a worm, the spine was involved with countless threads of sinew, artificial saliva, and endless sheets of mucous fascia. Bastion immediately flung that shit straight into the ocean.

Reinhardt sighed, and began the McCree summoning dance.

Reinhardt did three jumping jacks, in quick succession. He twirled his hair, placed his hand on his hip, and promptly began a jig. After a few moments of roundhouse kicks and breakdancing, Rein began an interpretive dance, ending the graceful series of movement, with the stiff, mighty pose of a cactus.

"I'm not sure if that was any more or less embarrassing than saying the password," said Reinhardt, almost entirely out of breath. "I might've thrown my back out agai— _OWW"_

Suddenly, McCree appeared on the sand, laying on his knees with his hands grasping the air. His mouth was agape.

"Ohh. Was he blowing a fucking horse again?" shrieked Bastion.

It was only then that McCree realized that he had been teleported. He realized that he may or may not have also fucked up.

"OH GOD FUCKIN' DAMNIT, WHAT DID I TELL Y'ALL?"

"You told us that if we needed help, you could be there for us—"

"NO I FUCKIN' DIDN— Er, wait, no, I actu'ly did. Ah, welp."

McCree took his hat and wiped his face with it. He placed the hat back onto his head, effectively gluing it to his hair with horse juice.

"So are y'all are finally killin' them damn vampies now?" slurred McCree.

"Yea, I guess," groaned Reinhardt, as he painfully tried to massage his back.

"Some gymnastic vampire zombie kidnapped a hipsterfucker and dragged the bastard into another dimension," moaned Bastion, nonchalantly. "The secret gateway has a password, but _we_ sure as hell ain't gonna say it."

"Ah, yea—" gasped Reinhardt. "We thought you may be able to help us. You may be the only one capable of saying the password in a convincing way."

Reinhardt handed the transcript over to McCree.

"Ah, what in the shi—

"Is this some kinda prank, partner?"

Bastion shrugged.

"I'm sorry, I, uh—" said Reinhardt. "But we might need your help with a lot more than just the password. I just threw my back out, aaand— and I might need some HELP—"

Bastion immediately approached Reinhardt from behind, grasping both his shoulders and lower body. Then, Bastion began to give Reinhardt the worst version of the Heimlich maneuver possible— which basically just appeared to be him humping the (thankfully not literal) shit out of Reinhardt. In public.

McCree started swatting Bastion on the side of the chassis.

"NO YA STUPID FUCK, BAD!"

After several more moments of trauma, Reinhardt eventually managed to wiggle free.

"Jesus Christ, it's— Well, my back feels better now. But... I...

"DON'T EVER FUCKING DO THAT AGAIN," screamed Reinhardt.

Bastion sulked.

McCree thought about horses.


	14. shitpile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bastion unleashes his frustrations, metaphorically and not

The door appeared from thin air again.  
****

"The fuck you motherfuckers want," it yawned.

McCree crossed his arms. "We're just a buncha new vampire zombie interns lookin' for some work, eh?"

"sure whatever fine," said the door. "you got tha password?"

McCree smirked, partially from embarrassment. "Daddy's gonna—"

"BIG MOTHERFUCKING DADDY BIRD'S GONNA SPRAY SOME ARMOR PIERCING LOADS STRAIGHT DOWN YOUR FUCKING THROATS," howled Bastion. "I'M... I'M GONNA CUM TWO HUNDRED FUCKING POUNDS OF DRIPPING, HOT, INCENDIARY, AND YOU'RE GONNA SWALLOW EVERY SINGLE ONE OF THOSE GODDAMN HIGH EXPLOSIVE BULLETS WHOLE. YOU. DIRTY. FUCKING. WHORES."

There was silence.

Dead, bleak silence.

Endless silence; eternal silence.

Suddenly, the door started sobbing.

The door had been defeated. No password it ever imagined could surpass Bastion's deranged, garbled rant. Its feeble door brain had been scarred eternally by the words. They cut deep into the door's sanity, breaking apart its very will to live, flinging its conscious into the farthest reaches of the realm. To the door, nothing would ever have meaning again. It began to open.

Reinhardt and McCree shrugged, and followed Bastion through the gateway.

* * *

The trio (more appropriately a quartet, considering Ganymede) came upon a lobby. At the receptionist's desk sat some kind of twisted, undead monster, who appeared to have a pile of dried cow shit for a face. It tried to make up for its looks by shaping fragments of the shit into little bows and flowers, and by draping its shoulders with gothic lace— but it still literally just looked like shit. It smelled like shit, too.

"Good morning," grumbled the shitpile.

"It's three in the fucking afternoon," hissed Bastion, hollowly.

The shitpile responded by lifting up its shirt, revealing a half-dozen rows of tits that were all made out of submachine guns. It focused fire on Bastion, who was immediately so pissed off that he shot the shitpile in the fucking shitface with the fucking hellfire-chaingun. The gun now happened to be dripping a heavy, lightly-colored substance from the tip of its barrel, whereas the base of the gun was throbbing with hydraulic fluid.

Bastion screamed, and immediately began to devour every last cartridge and casing that the shitpile's machine guns had left behind. He thrust the uncanny, clawed limbs out from his body and began to grab clusters of the guns themselves, swallowing them straight into his infernal engine, and paying no attention to the shit smeared across them. He sat quietly for several moments, retching and quietly shifting his torso, in an attempt to evenly redistribute the weight around inside of his body.

Bastion then began to hum and sing, with the voice of a sweet passerine. Of course, the harder he tried to pronounce and soften the melody, the more dissonant and wretched the sound would become; leading to even more anger.

Bastion, now frustrated in every fucking way imaginable, suddenly lurched over to the elevator and began to fuck the buttons with the hellgun. After less than 30 seconds, all four and a half feet of the gunsaw's girthy, bladed length had been lodged into the building, and there was a deep, cracked impression of Bastion's body outline on the wall as well.

McCree and Reinhardt had already pissed themselves.

They quietly began to help Bastion pull the gun out of the wall.

At last, the gun had finally been freed, and McCree promptly took an entire gallon of caustic, thick fluid to the face. It immediately began to burn his facial hair off.


	15. yeezys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> major character death

Some of the oily robojizz had gotten onto Reinhardt's yeezys, immediately dissolving parts of them.

"MY YEEZYS," he cried, as he fell to his knees. "MY _REAL_ YEEZYS!"

Bastion only continued his raspy, deep wheezing. He appeared to be in an intense amount of simultaneous pain and ecstasy.

"YOU KNOW WHAT?" screamed Reinhardt. "I'M SO FUCKING TIRED OF EVERYTHING! I TRIED TO BE SO NICE, I TRIED TO DO ALL THIS NICE SHIT— I TRIED TO KEEP MYSELF BEHAVED! I TRIED TO KEEP _YOU_ UNDER CONTROL, BASTION— AND LOOK WHAT HAPPENED! LOOK WHAT FUCKING HAPPENED! I STILL DON'T KNOW WHAT THE FUCK IS HAPPENING!"

McCree was just bashing his face into the drinking fountain, trying to alleviate the searing, chemical pain.

Reinhardt had now taken off one of his yeezys, trying to stroke it and comfort it as if it were a dying animal. He sobbed.

"WE CANNOT EVEN KEEP OURSELVES SANE FOR MORE THAN TWO FUCKING DAYS! THAT IS NOT ENOUGH TIME TO MAKE A DOCUMENTARY!

"THIS WAS A _TERRIBLE_ IDEA!"

The cameraman quietly wiped a blotch of robojizz off of the camera lens. Reinhardt continued to bawl.

"Is this about the yeezys...?" whined Bastion, stunned. He seemed somewhat terrified.

Reinhardt just cried.

And cried.

Suddenly, the elevator dinged. Bastion peeked inside, and began to read the floor labels, out of uncontrollable curiosity.

"Floor two is the Vampire Zombie CHQ..." mumbled Bastion, still somewhat scared and distraught.

Reinhardt quietly slipped the melted yeezy back onto his giant foot. "Heh," he sniffed. "That... _rhymed.._."

McCree suddenly screamed in pain. "Uh, 'scuse me," he mumbled, awkwardly. "What in tarnation is a **C** HQ?"

Bastion gave a deep, mechanical growl. "Cockheadquarters."

Reinhardt sniffed again. "Are... are they _gay_ vampire zombies?"

Bastion suddenly extended some kind of pitch-black, tongue-like apparatus from beneath his face, and began to taste the elevator buttons. The "tongue" kind of reminded Reinhardt of a chameleon, and he liked that, because chameleons are fucking cute. But it also reminded him of an H.R. Giger painting. It gave off a very molest-y, mechanical vibe and Reinhardt did not like that one fucking bit. Now he couldn't see chameleons the same way anymore, so he just started crying again.

Bastion was licking the _fuck_ out of the elevator's panel now. The machine was only halfway inside the elevator, clawing at the interior, thrusting at the wall, and kicking at the lobby's linoleum. McCree and the cameraman couldn't figure out what the hell was going on, but eventually they decided they didn't want to see that shit up close anyway.

Bastion was apparently digging into the elevator buttons like an all-you-can-eat buffet. Bastion was entirely insatiable, but he eventually decided to stop fucking licking it, simply for the greater good. Bastion awkwardly pulled himself out of the elevator, hardly able to fit through the doors; then, he immediately turned to Reinhardt, letting the slobbery, veiny apparatus slap Rein right in the fucking face.

"Whaat the fuuuck was _thaaat_ for," squealed Reinhardt, with the attitude, emotions, and vocabulary of a twelve year old on CoD.

"I determined that the vampire zombies are in fact not exclusively gay, but instead have a diversity of orientations, just like any other large group of people. The name CHQ is for purely humorous reasons," screamed Bastion.

Bastion was delivering his beeps and boops in the most demonic, horrifying, yet clinical manner that beeps and boops could possibly be delivered. The amount of terror that the beeps and boops induced was slightly weakened by the topic at hand, though.

"Welp," said Reinhardt. "I guess we have to go kill vampire zombies..."

Reinhardt planted his face into his arms and cried. He collapsed onto the floor, curled into the fetal position, and began to wallow in his own tears. He thought about chameleons.


	16. what's that noise

"Do vou hold a very high opinion on zhe concept of _parties?"_ inquired vampire zombie #1, in a rather thick accent.

"Yeeaah?" mumbled vampire zombie #2, who unfortunately lacked any kind of notable inflections.

"Vwe could invite _all_ of our friends, zen consume soda, and cannabis!"

_"Yea!"_

"I do hope zat no _bad_ people shall arrive..."

* * *

The vampire zombies meandered around the room, sipping their bloody brain soda. They just kinda hung out and talked about mundane shit, occasionally giggling their half-rotted asses off.

Then, the elevator whirred.

It rumbled.

It _trembled._

The vampires reluctantly brought their gaze to the doors of the elevator as a deep, muffled guitar riff briefly sounded through its closed doors—

And there was silence.

Then, there was a *ding.*

**_"KICK IT!"_ **

The guitar riff suddenly returned, heavier— now backed with sharp drums and thick bass. Bastion had a brand new DIY custom motherfucking 120 decibel sound system built directly into his own fucking body, and he was gonna jam that bitch _hard._

Bastion immediately ripped and forced the elevator's doors open, crumpling them like little floppy pieces of bitch-ass tinfoil; directly afterwards, a heavy cloud of vapor billowed from the lift, flooding into the room and fogging the air with fruity ass smoke. Bastion began thrusting and pumping both of his cannons forward and back, with immeasurable vigor.

Reinhardt ripped a tiny gadget from his pocket, which soon grew into finely textured hilt. The handle quickly summoned a mashy, blunt head upon its tip, and soon the assembly was soaring through the air, dancing with the flaming, hearty spirit that Reinhardt bestowed into it. The hammer had a life of its own, pulsating with an arcane, loyal energy— it was bonded eternally with its wielder, and its leonine temperament could be tamed and controlled by absolutely no other. Reinhardt smirked; the bright grin now seemed to be permanently plastered to his face.

McCree cocked the hammer and expertly spun the revolver around his finger (nearly shooting himself in the literal fucking foot). He quietly took his finger off of the trigger, and began to grip the gun more responsibly. Shadily, he then lowered the brim of his hat to conceal his eyes (and to professionally hide his missing facial hair). McCree suddenly exhaled the fattest fucking cloud ever, which swirled around the frayed edges of his war-torn poncho.

All of these three things happened simultaneously in the span of about 3 seconds. The vampire zombies did not have enough time to comprehend the visual input in the elevator before them, mostly because the room was so vapey it made laser tag arenas seem like they had the clearest air on the continent.

Bastion immediately charged into the scene, grabbing the nearest vampire zombie by the neck and dragging it uncomfortably close to his own chassis. He slid his hand underneath the victim's right arm, taking the hellsaw to its left shoulder and sawing straight downwards into its fucking bladder (so technically you can say the vampire pissed itself). The process was slow, and splintery; occasionally, it sounded like glass in a goddamn blender— or perhaps a more apt description would be the sharp rattle of legos shooting through a gristly, fleshy vacuum cleaner.

Though they took a few milliseconds longer to carve through, Bastion loved the bony, cartilage-ridden sections of the body; no matter how small of a challenge it was, Bastion relished any kind of resistance. Unfortunately the corpse, as a whole, was disappointingly rotten— and the vampires seemed to lack any blood of their own. Thankfully, this problem had already been solved when Bastion ripped through the vampire's soupy stomach contents. While it wasn't the blood from the vampires own veins, it had the same overall vibe and that's all that fucking matters.

Reinhardt grasped the hilt harder, as he swung the hammer with fervor. The rockets unleashed streaks of brilliant fire, trailing with shock diamonds. He brought the hammer to a vampire zombie's skull, unexpectedly ramming the entire creature into and _through_ the wall. Reinhardt scratched his head, then curiously slung the hammer against the punch bowl. A scattered wave of glass, blood, solo cups, and liquified brains immediately flew across the room.

McCree just kind of stood there, throwing sand at everything. Occasionally he snapped a silver bullet straight into a vampire zombie's ass; but these sick mofos wouldn't always die. They were like undead undead, and unless you tore them limb from limb, _they'd just keep coming back._ McCree easily solved this problem by luring the vampire zombies over to Bastion, and then politely pushing them closer to the robot. They wouldn't always get that merciful half-saw arm-gundick impaled through their ribcage— the unlucky ones would have to watch and _listen_ as Bastion tore his own fucking chest cavity open, painfully snapping and twisting every piece of himself apart in order to swallow his victims whole, straight into the motherfucking engine. It was like watching a goddamn bullfrog get a mouse— well, if bullfrogs had food processors inside of 'em.

Quietly, a skinny surf vampire, decked in gothic surf attire, approached Bastion with his surf axe.

"yo whats up bro," said the surf vampire. It was the vampire that had kidnapped the hipsterfucker! He looked stoned as fuck.

"y'all guys are so fucking violent whats ur problem man," said surf vampire.

Bastion began touching himself.

"you like dont have any reason to just come in here and literally murder everyone you know that right," sobbed surf vampire.

Reinhardt clenched his fist. "We saw you kidnapping a hipster!" he cried. "Do you really believe yourself to be so innocent?"

Surf vampire shrugged.

"at least im not killing anybody," sniffed surf vampire.

"At least I'm not raping anybody," retorted Bastion.

McCree yawned, as the surviving vampire zombies fled and hid behind their surf brother.

"... _yet_..." booped Bastion.


	17. unsatisfactory

Surf vampire gently poked Bastion's face with the surf axe.

"we just wanna have weed and have fun, dude," said surf vampire. "we only kidnap virgins to take their weed. then we erase their memories and let them go, like little butterflies. listen, we dont have blood inless its a feckin party, and we dont have brains unless its a feckin party"

Reinhardt coughed, as Bastion trotted away and began to fuck the actual, literal bloodshit out of a corpse.

"That seems like a rather violent way to obtain weed," mumbled Reinhardt, as he completely ignored the undead necro-necrophilia beside him. "Could you not grow it yourself?"

Surf vampire shrugged. "we always forget to take care of the plants, and all living things have meaning so we felt bad when the plants dried out..."

Surf vampire began to cry. "all those poor souls, my little weed dudes, they're all wilted and dead, their little xylems snapped in half, just like all my friends' spines— holy shit all my friends have broken spines"

Bastion began to retch. His mechanical insides were strong, but his thrusts were far too robust. The powerful motion caused Bastion to immediately disgorge two whole legs, a forearm, and fourteen gallons of bloody chyme. He attempted to swallow them again, whilst continuing to hump.

"You know, I would like to see some actual proof of your peaceful nature," said Reinhardt.

Surf vampire's arm fell off, because the axe was too heavy.

He picked up the arm and tried to put it back but it didn't work. Angrily, he threw the arm (and the axe) at Bastion, who immediately ingested both of them, violently and painfully choking them down.

"i mean for one thing we live in a fucking communal office in another dimension so we're not really bothering you idk i have to go shit"

Then surf vampire went to go shit.

"Well then," scoffed Reinhardt. "So, uh... Do any of you guys know how to kindly convince your friend to _not_ morph into a cosmic horror? _Again?_ This shit keeps happening. I'm getting really fucking tired of it. I know he's doing it on purpose."

One of the vampire zombies shrugged. "I dunno, I think cosmic horrors are kinda cute—"

The vampire zombie immediately took a 30mm autocannon shell to the face. Now, it no longer had a face. Or a neck. Or an upper torso. There was just a random scattering of smoldering flesh and shattered bone. The vampire zombie's legs and lower body were mostly okay, though, and Bastion gleefully dashed over to assimilate them. They began to kick and struggle once Bastion began fusing them to his innards.

"I... I guess having an unstoppable, voracious, omnipotent entity as a friend could be somewhat useful," said Rein. "But... It has its cons. Everything has its cons. I don't know how to calm him down."

Bastion started fucking the wall again.

Then, surf vampire came back. He had the ability to shit at sonic speeds so it didn't take him long.

"hi guys im back what did i missOH GOD MR ANDRYJOHNCISO OH NO

"andryjohnciso was like my best friend now half of him's just a burnt bloody smear on the wall, wow

"and the other half is half inside a half robot half beast thing omg

"you motherfuckers need to work on your hospitality w t f "

Bastion eventually stopped fucking the wall, in order to focus more on fully swallowing Andryjohnciso's stupid struggling zombie legs. The machine had apparently developed a frame of biorobotic, elastic muscles; he began to extend his neck, slowly writhing his body in an attempt to work the legs further and deeper into the chassis. The thing's gut was like a black hole, filled with unfillable hunger.

Bastion suddenly sputtered and booped something that sounded kind of like songbird fun facts. He wasn't really able to communicate anymore, except by directly invading everyone's thoughts. He coiled his neck, tilted his head, and began to look _into_ Reinhardt, in the most charming manner he could manage.

"so you guys are like making a documentary or something?" asked surf vampire.

"Yea," whined Reinhardt, nervously. He was having difficulty speaking, because he could not discern which part of his mind was his, and which was not.

"ok thats totally cool man, after this is all over i can give you guys the security footage from the building and you can use it in the dogkurumentally. im not that angry you killed all my friends btw, everybody makes mistakes sometimes"

Reinhardt grew dizzy, and quickly passed out onto the floor.

Briefly, the lights flickered— then, they dimmed, as if there was a sudden, severe brownout. Bastion twitched, and wept softly; slowly pacing across the room, he pulled and bobbed his head along like a heron. Entire sections of his body were now pitch-black, blending in and merging with the deteriorating quality of the video footage.

The lights faded completely. The date and time on the security footage began to warp.


	18. the hills are alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> rap battles and somebody fucking dies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this doesn't count as major character death because everybody will come back later

Reinhardt finally slid out of bed and began to twirl.

"Why, the hotel is sleeping, the patrons are dreaming, the snowflakes begin their, downward fall!

"The engines are screaming, metal teeth gleaming— patrolling the deep woods with gall!

"Why, there's no reason to sing, no reason to run, but I'm finding myself in the hall—

"I'll slide down the stairs, raise my neck hairs, then dodge the axe in the wall;

"And then I'll just drink some beer because why the fuck not."

Reinhardt cracked open a bottle of Pißwasser and sobbed.

This was merely **Round One** of Bastion's Sexually Frustrated Interdimensional Safety Practice Capability Dicks Course Guidelines Dicks Dicks Dicks, A.K.A. **The Bloodthirsty Triple-D Gauntlet.**

Reinhardt (and a select few of his friends) had been trapped in some kind of endless level-based challenge, located in some kind of visceral, privately-owned pocket dimension— which appeared to have a mind of its own. It was a living, throbbing entity, seemingly existing as a part of Bastion's unfathomable consciousness.

Colorful paper confetti shot from the air vents, as a television crawled and struggled from the hotel wall. It anchored itself into the ceiling, before gluing itself back to the drywall with a gluey mass of black, mechanical intestines.

An informational video began to play.

"Hi there, I'm an SST Laboratories™ SA Bastion model, serial number E54. You uncultured bitches can all just call me "Bastion." Now, here's some footage of me fondling my own 600 pound rotary cannon cock."

It was graphic.

"Now that we've gotten that out of the way, I'd like to politely describe to you the details of this little... roleplay event that I've set up for you all. Now, some of you've already discovered this round's theme. You know, the little envelopes that were placed on each of your nightstands— you read the guidelines, correct?

"Well, if you didn't read the guidelines, I'll repeat them— Oops, just kidding! Ah, just pulling your little, pathetic, tiny little legs there. Got you all so fucking good. So... yea. If you didn't read the guidelines, chances are: I already fucking killed you. Through assimilation, consumption, or— _love_ — oh, oh my. Yes. Love, my friends. _Love._

"Anyways, my loyal test subjects— if you happen to be one of the bastards that's still alive, then you'll definitely remember that this round was faithfully designed after two of my favorite movies. _The_... _Shining,_ aaand _The Sound of Music_. Haven't seen them in years, and honestly, I don't remember half of what happened in them; but I'm sure you'll all love it. I know **I** definitely will! Oh, ohh...

"So. You will all be judged in multiple categories. How well you sing, how fun you are to... chase, and how good it feels to fuck the literal guts out of you. There'll be bonus rounds too, y'know... For whoever feels the best as they let their poor little corpse scream, struggle, and slide straight down my fucking throat... ohhh... Oh, yea, and don't forget— I've contacted the network! This is _aaaall_ going in the documentary, folks.

"But... let the games begin."

Reinhardt and many of his closest friends immediately organized a little faction, assembling their base of operations in the hotel's kitchen. There was a lot of beer, and sandwiches.

"," blinked Chell.

"Good point," mumbled Reinhardt.

"I was cryogenically frozen, and woke up later to have all of my friends dead," mumbled Mei. "I wandered the halls of a forgotten ecopoint base, alone, for years, slowly picking up pieces of my memories. My friends were not killed by the cold, no... they were killed by... it."

"Bastion?"

"No you fucking idiot, _The Thing_. It's basically fucking real 'cause the timelines merged you piece of shit don't you remember that? I was the poor soul had had to kill _The_ fucking _Thing._ How in the hell did you already forget?"

Reinhardt shrugged and whimpered, as the lights flickered and dimmed.

Ripley began to sing.

"I've seen beasts burst from chests

"Men burn alive in the nests

"Acid blood burning t'ru th' ver'y hull of our shiiip—

"I've watched my friends die,

"Bitten n' dragged up high

"O I've fought dastardly queens with a mechanized grip—

"Yet nothing I've seen compares to this shit."

Mr. Marston tapped his foot, spurs jangling.

"I was a murderer, a lone wolf, gunnin' through the west

"Then my body laid down inna wood'n chest

"My wife's a widow, in another universe

"An' I'll never see her eyes again—

"I was a killer, a bad man, runnin' 'cross the plains

"Hired by the law for... capital gains

"Tried to lead a normal life

"But I was met with dread

"The heavens say 'nay,' an' hell rose instead."

"Ah, is this a singing contest?" asked Reinhardt.

"It sure as hell is," murmured Jesse, who was dangerously envious of John. (Hey by the way, motherfuckers, did you ever notice that Jessie McCree and John Marston have the same initials? They're the same age. They both have Deadeye. They've got the same damn facial hair. Blizzard is a bunch of fucking hack frauds, I tell you).

Reinhardt's whiskers began to twitch with joy.

"Ooga chaka ooga chaka ooga ooga chaka—" cried the talking fish on the wall.

"I CAN'T STOP THIS FEELING," cried Reinhardt.

"DEEP INSIDE OF MEEEE...

"GIRL YOU JUST DONT REALIZE, WHAT YOU DO TO ME—"

Reinhardt began stroke the hilt of his hammer. (That's not a metaphor btw fuck off).

Chell slapped Rein. "!"

Rein frowned, but he understood his duty.

"Right, right. I forgot. We're trapped in some kind of space-warping, maze-like building, with a mechanical god looking down upon us, watching our every move in the hope that we can somehow sate his... desires."

"That would not be the first time for her," mumbled Hackerman.

"Is there anything we could possibly do? You know, to maybe escape?"

Then Paarthurnax began to sing. "CHIM CHIMENY, CHIM CHIMENY, CHIM CHIM, CHEREE—"

"GOD DAMN IT PAARTHY," shouted Reinhardt. "THE SINGING IS OVER!"

"Sorry."

"Ahem. Hackerman? Sombra?" called Reinhardt. "Bastion is a machine. You both have bullshit hacking powers that have little or nothing to do with how computers actually work. Would you like to give it a try?"

Sombra suddenly fwipped her hair and flexed her futuristic purple cyberpunk Power Glove. Flecks of magenta electricity and plasma circled around her, as she played holographic SkiFree with her pointy fingernails. She twiddled her fingers around, fake typing, typing super fast, because obviously if you can type fast you're a MOTHERFUCKING HACKER.

Hackerman adjusted his regular Power Glove, and pushed his glasses back up his nose. Then he hacked an IBM PC out of space and started typing super fucking fast on it.

"Hackerman, if we type together, we can hack faster."

So Sombra ran over and started helping Hackerman hack by typing on the keyboard too.

"Oh shit I broke my nail," said Sombra, as she hacked her fingernail back. Then she hacked more nail polish onto it.

They were dual hacking and using the strongest hacking techniques in the fucking world. Their hands were typing and hacking so fast the camera couldn't even pick up the details it was just a fucking blur of Power Gloves.

"Oh no the document is lagging and because of the large file size, it is taking longer to save to the directory," said Hackerman.

"Better speak in english parter," said John.

"WORDS TOO BIG," cried Hackerman.

"Wait," said Sombra. "No... Your computer is special and therefore very powerful. It is not lagging because of the file size. It is lagging because of—"

Then Hackerman's hovering space computer started spazzing out all over the place. Its screen cracked, as bloody metal fleshbowels began growing from within. Soon metal teeth appeared behind the glass, forming long, jagged rows of glittering dentaries. The pressure began to build inside, causing the computer's plastic casing to split and pop, splattering jets of mucous and oil along the ground. Each individual key on the keyboard began to grow into a tablet of non-explosive reactive armor, which then forcefully ripped itself into a new position on the beast's back. Its jaw was jointed in dozens of locations, bending and stretching far back behind its skull, and the neck had to be at least eight feet long or some shit I don't know they didn't have a tape measure. Its arms and legs were waaaaay too fucking long tho.

"Oh shit" said Hackerman, as the skinny, mechanical creature snagged him by the ankles with its barbed, prehensile tongue. Its neck took up half of its overall body length, and then its long jaw seemed to fill the entire length of said neck. When it opened its maw, the entire sides of its esophagus stretched to nearly double in length, and part of its chest had to expand as well. It began to tug and pull Hackerman towards its mouth, in a sadistically playful manner.

Sombra tried to hack it but then porn started popping up on her holograms. "Oh no," she said. It was not just any porn IT WAS BASTION PORN. His personal videos of him _fucking_ things, that he only recorded because he was an egotistical cunt. He fucked lot of things. Cars. Planes. Houses. IBM PCs. That gatling cannon was two feet wide and couldn't really fit in anything except your mum, but Bastion was so determined to fuck that he just crushed things he was too big for. Sombra started crying.

"I cannot prevail, the hack is too much, cannot surpass, my mind is fucking broke," she wept.

"That was mildly poetic," said Reinhardt, as he wiped a tear from his eye. Then he realized _holy fucking shit my friend is about to get eaten and absorbed painfully maybe I should do something about it._

So Reinhardt took his hammer and slapped the robot in the face with it.

"Bastion you piece of shit don't eat Hackerman" said Reinhardt bravely and eloquently, and bravely.

Bastion responded by splitting the plates of his face apart like a little flower, and then he unleashed a guttural, ravenous metallic roar. Bastion's breath smelled like saliva, burning hair, gasoline, and vinegar. Mostly vinegar.

Now Reinhardt had a bunch of really smelly, oily, gluey spit on his face. It was a lot like lube but kinda iridescent and dark colored maybe there's a market for this but who gives a shit.

Reinhardt wiped the spit from his face and slapped Bastion with the hammer again. It didn't do shit.

Bastion was still just kinda dangling Hackerman around like he was a GI Joe or some fuckin' thing I dunno. Reinhardt tried and tried to grasp the tongue but it would always slip from his grip like a bumpy, jagged bar of soap. Bastion eventually got tired of fucking with everybody and he just ate Hackerman.

"OH FUCK NO" screamed Reinhardt.

Sombra bawled.

McCree pissed himself.

Ripley pissed herself also.

Chell blinked.


	19. adhd

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> stupid

"Why can't the bastard just 'hack' his way out?" screamed John.

"The machine has anti-hacking measures! The bane of hack!" cried Sombra.

"I don't know what to do," sobbed Reinhardt. Hackerman's muffled screams were still droning on and on, and Bastion was making every attempt to prevent escape.

Suddenly, Eliot Anderson appeared from the ceiling.

"Hello I'm here to help you I hack everyone," said Eliot, as he floated in the air with his hacking powers.

Eliot sent an email to Bastion.

* * *

**_HEL-LO!_ **

**_I am supa Ugandan kung fu master from Uganda in need of help to defeat my arch nemesis. If you have the money please send the money for my kung fu commandos. We need da money. Click_ ** **_this_ ** **_supa link to send the money and help us. Remember, every 60 seconds in Uganda, a minute passes._ **

* * *

Bastion clicked the link.

"Ha" said Eliot. "You just gave away your information and automatically downloaded a script and now... uhh...

"Son of a bitch he has a custom OS. What the shit. This thing must've been designed by a crazy person."

Eliot disappeared back through the ceiling.

"What does he mean?" cried Reinhardt.

"These recon/attack role automatons from the 030's didn't run on an orthodox operating system," said Eliot, from space. "Because of security concerns the droids ran on a system built from the ground up, and whoever designed it was a fucking cultist or something, like just _looking_ at it gave me space cancer, so bye I'm gonna go buy shoes on Bastion's credit card."

Bastion then removed all instances of his credit card and credit card information from every place in every single plane of existence, ever.

"You asshole," said Eliot as he went back to sulking in the lower middle class. In space.

"How did he know all that shit about Bastions," said Reinhardt.

"He probably hacked the knowledge," said Sombra. "He's the second best hacker of all time."

Bastion started to twitch and shudder violently, occasionally taking a few ineffective kicks, punches, and hack-attacks from within his own jagged metal innards. He'd just kinda been standing there, twitching in pain like that, the entire time. Nobody was sure if he was gonna try to eat anybody else or what, they were just interested in seeing what was going to happen. McCree started poking Bastion's disfigured cranium with a stick.

"Ggbllggbglbhhsgsbh," said Bastion, as he frothed at the mouth.

" ?" blinked Chell.

"Oh my god you're right," said Reinhardt. "Bastion, I... I promised you we'd go get ice cream."

Bastion retched.

"I mean, I really, really _don't_ have an appetite right now," continued Reinhardt. "But we _did_ kill the vampires, riiight? Even though I hate you a lot, you're also kind of my friend. Er, you _are_ my friend. I know that sounds sappy, but it's _somewhat_ true."

Bastion began writhing, thrashing, and rolling around on the floor.

"Come on, quit this tantrum. I _mean_ it. This _entire_ thing. All of this gauntlet bullshit? It's all just another one of your stupid tantrums! Cut it out, you bastard."

"I had so many fucking good ideas, though!" screamed Bastion. "I... Like, son of a bitch, nobody even tried to use the elevator... My all-consuming, sexy motherfucking elevator...

"And I didn't get to fuck anybody, Rein. I DIDN'T GET TO FUCK ANYBODY!"

"Bastion you son of a bitch shut the fuck up ok," said Reinhardt. "You're going to take us back to our own fucking insane chaos dimension that nobody gives a shit about anyway."

So then Bastion took everyone back to the fucking insane chaos dimension that nobody gives a shit about anyway, because he was a whiny little bitch (but he had already gotten bored of the Bloodthirsty Triple-D Gauntlet anyway because of debilitating ADHD, so it was a win-win anyway).


	20. the delayed ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this chapter a super long time ago and i kept forgetting to post it

Reinhardt and Chell stared wildly at the cartons behind the counter. It was a bunch of fucking ice cream hell yeah, what else could it be? Fuckin' ice cream, man.

"ok what do you want" said the ice cream scooping guy, whatever the fuck that job is called.

Ripley scuttled in from the side. "I'd like that one," she said, without pointing at any flavor of ice cream. But ice cream shitscoop woop de doop man knew exactly what kind of ice cream she wanted, just by pure telepathy alone, and so he gave Ripley her ice cream, aaand so she scuttled back to her booth.

Hackerman, who was sitting at the booth, suddenly shuddered.

"It was cold. Cold and dark... I don't ever want to be cold again," he sobbed, in a disturbed, monotone voice. "So dark. Dark... Can't move... Can't move... Squeezing, crushing, pain... Can't breathe, can't breathe..."

"Somebody hack his PTSD away," said Ripley.

Sombra summoned Eliot from SPACE and they FUCKED the PTSD out of his skull with HACKFORCE.

"Ok I will go get some ice cream," said Hackerman.

And he went and got his ice cream. He hacked extra sprinkles onto it because he was a badass who likes extra sprinkles.

Reinhardt and Chell still couldn't decide what flavors they wanted— actually no fuck you they knew exactly what they wanted: there's motherfucking portal colored ice cream in there. Blue raspberry and orange sherbet, swirled together in the most beautiful twirl of complementary colors known to man. Chell ordered it immediately. Reinhardt got a few scoops of it too because they had run out of hammer flavored ice cream.

Then, everybody was happy. Well I mean few of them were lactose intolerant so they were less happy, but they just got burgers, or some shit... I dunno it was all good, man. All good. Actually, I lied, it was fucking _terrible._ Everybody knew that the minute they finished their ice cream, they'd feel like shit again. Some of them _already_ felt like shit, and no amount of hacking or cosmic horror could fix that. But for this brief moment in time, things were pretty good. And they knew that maybe in the future, they might feel good again. Just these little happy moments like this, scattered throughout the mundane crawl of time.

Bastion crushed several cartons of ice cream into his body, then immediately puked a misty cloud of bloody, oily mucus all over the table. It immediately caught fire.

 

Everything was going to be okay.


End file.
